Contingency Plan
by McMoni
Summary: What happens between episodes 1.10 Number Crunch and 1.11 Super? A hurt/comfort multi-chapter tag, in which Reese recovers, Finch worries and a friendship unexpectedly develops.
1. Making Plans

**_Author's Note:_ So, when I was watching episodes 1.10 and 1.11, there were a few thoughts that popped up in my mind. Mostly, what happens between the morgue scene and John's arrival at the condo where Trask works?**  
 **This is my take, I hope you will enjoy it.**

 **Many thanks to _DancingInTheDark85_ , who beta'ed it and gave me a lot of valuable suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine.**

 ** _Disclaimer_ : as you probably already guessed, I don't own the show. I'm just playing around a bit with the characters, but I promise I'll give them back relatively unarmed when I'm done.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Making Plans**

Finch's POV

Had anybody told him, just a few weeks ago, that he would end up spending a night at someone else's bedside in a sort of vigil, he would have definitely found the thought ludicrous, Finch mused, staring at the monitor of his laptop without really seeing it. And yet, there he was, sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a cramped room at the morgue, all but crammed against the bed where Reese lay sleeping.

Well, maybe it didn't really count as a whole night vigil, he amended, since he had been sitting there for no more than a few hours. After retrieving a hurt and heavily bleeding Reese from the back entrance of St. George Hospital, when he had finally managed to bring him to medical help, it was already after midnight – and they were supposed to be leaving the morgue before the beginning of the morning shift. Yes, he decided, a meager six hours hardly counted as a night.

But the fact remained that he had been there all along, and, as natural and right as it now felt to Harold to just _be there_ , he had no doubts that, just a few weeks prior, he would have hardly thought this possible. And not for lack of caring for other human beings – Harold liked to think that, as socially awkward as he might be, he was a fairly decent person.

Just, he was very reserved. Private. Discreet. Bedside vigils, mad dashes though the city with a bleeding, dying man on the backseat, silent pleas to hold on – all those things sounded terribly melodramatic and preposterous and very _unlike_ him – and yet he had done each and every one of them.

He let his gaze wander around the cramped space, a place which obviously wasn't even supposed to be a room, let alone something akin to a hospital room. Patients in a morgue usually did not need beds, IV poles or any other sort of medical equipment for that matter, but Reese did, so Harold had done everything in his power to acquire all the necessary items. There was almost nothing money couldn't buy – and, luckily, money was a commodity Finch possessed in abundance.

Truth was, he had been prepared for the event of things going south. What they did was deadly dangerous – Reese's part of the job even more so – and so Harold had made sure to have dozens of contingencies planned out in due advance. What he hadn't anticipated, though, was how soon in their partnership he would need to implement such plans. _That_ had been quite a troubling epiphany. A wake-up call.

He sighed as his eyes surveyed for the umpteenth time the pale and pained face of his employee. It had been a very close call, so close that the adrenaline had yet to leave Finch's system, or so he thought. Caught in the middle of the action, with lots of planning to do – for medical care, for the next few days' accommodations, for the organization of the very same room they were currently in – he was still full of nervous energy. The contrast with the unsettling stillness of his partner was stark and disquieting.  
Even in his sleep, lines of pain were etched on John's face and his eyes moved quickly under the closed eyelids, a clear sign that the younger man wasn't far from regaining consciousness. The doctor, much to Harold's dismay, had opted only for a mild dose of sedative and pain relief, even before extracting the bullets and putting the stitches, because the lack of proper medical equipment made it impossible to thoroughly monitor the patient's vitals. Thus, deep sedation, however desirable, was unfortunately out of question. Besides, they would need to relocate soon and, for that, it was essential for Reese to be awake and alert and as able to move around as possible. Harold bit back a shiver at the thought.

He focused his attention back on the laptop, checking for the third time the specifics of the facility he had chosen for the next few days. John clearly still needed some sort of medical attention, and he had made his pick accordingly. Hotels were obviously out of questions – they would have raised way too much attention. The kind of dingy motels John seemed to prefer – the ones where nobody asked questions as long as payments were regular- hardly sounded up to the necessary standards. As their very name suggested, safe houses were a much wiser choice, but the ones Finch usually preferred while working the numbers were too big or impractical and generally devoid of high-level medical equipment. So, in the end, he had opted for a two-room flat they had never used - almost small by Finch's usual standards – but well-equipped, free of stairs, steps and any other architectonic obstacles, secluded enough and yet not too far from the morgue where doctor Madani worked. The best option, he silently repeated to himself, trying to assuage his doubts.

Finch then checked again the NYPD bullpen – still no trace of Carter and her CIA pals – and his thoughts briefly turned to the Detective. She had crossed a line tonight, choosing to let them go, to help them escape. He was considering turning on the microphone on her cellphone and find out whether she was still with Snow, but the sudden arrival of the Iraqi doctor made the decision for him. He powered off the laptop and watched the doctor as he moved closer to John.

"It's almost time for you to leave," Madani said in a low voice, and went to check the IV. The bag, administering saline solution and antibiotics, was almost empty. "The morning shift will start in half an hour."

Finch nodded with a sigh and put the laptop back in his bag. "Is it safe to move him?" he asked.

"I believe so, but I will have to check his vitals," the doctor answered.

The brief exchange, although very quiet, had evidently been enough to wake Reese up, since the younger man began stirring. He stilled for a moment, then opened his eyes and looked around in frenzied confusion.

"John," Finch softly attracted the younger man's attention. "We're leaving soon. The doctor is going to have a look at you now."

Reese's eyes immediately focused on Harold's face, the fleeting look of panic replaced in a blink by alertness and he wordlessly nodded.

Madani made a quick job of checking his patient's vitals and, evidently satisfied at what he found, he gently removed the IV.

"Doctor?" Finch quietly prompted.

"He's as fine as he can be under the circumstances," the doctor stated. "As long as he doesn't move around any more than strictly necessary, you should be able to drive him somewhere safe without problems."

Finch nodded, relieved, and the doctor turned his gaze to Reese and added, "I'll bring you something to wear now and I can help you get a little cleaned up before you go."

"Ah, yes, but we will also need his old clothes," Harold interjected. "I'll make sure to get rid of them properly. Oh, and also anything else which has his bloodstains on. Gauze, sheets, everything."

If the doctor was alarmed or surprised by the request, he made a good job of masking it. "I will bring them to you," he assured and quickly exited the room.

Finch shifted his attention back on John. The younger man's gaze was still browsing the room, eyes keen and sharp under the deep frown, as he took in the pieces of advanced medical equipment scattered around his bed. Something shone in his eyes as he realized that Finch had procured them – bafflement, surprise, awe – but that moment of unguardedness was quickly replaced by his usual stony mask. He finally focused back on Finch. "Not exactly the stuff I'd expect to find at the coroner's office," he murmured with a pointed look.

"No indeed," Harold succinctly replied, acknowledging the unspoken question but refusing to offer an explanation.

He was spared any further possible pursuing of the matter by the return of the doctor, who was carrying several items in his hands.

He handed Finch a bag which, as he found out with a quick inspection, contained John's blood-soaked clothes, the belt he had used to staunch the bleeding of his leg and the sheets that had been on the gurney.

As Harold perused the contains of the bag, Madani had expertly guided John in a sitting position and was now helping him don a t-shirt over his dirty and blood-stained suit trousers.

"You will have to keep your weight off that leg," he instructed. "No crutches for a couple of weeks, though, until your side heals. Bedrest for now, then a wheelchair will do."

Finch curtly nodded, taking a mental note to acquire all the necessary items as soon as possible. He registered the fact that Reese hadn't objected to any of the doctor's suggestions. Strangely enough, he found such an unexpected compliance from the younger man to be somehow troubling instead of reassuring.

The trip back to the Harold's car, made with the help of a cart similar to the one Finch had used just a few hours ago to wheel Reese in, was quick and uneventful and in a few minutes the wounded man was settled in the car. He hadn't uttered a sound during the short trip from the morgue to the car, but the tight set of his jaw, the fine sheet of perspiration on his face, the faraway, unfocused look and the measured and shallow breaths he was taking spoke volumes about the level of discomfort he was currently in.

Finch was about to reach for the car door but the medic stopped him before he could get in, and the geek cast him a questioning look. He had already been given detailed instructions about the treatment of his partner – do's, don'ts, meds dosages and so on – and, until now, the doctor had abided by the no-questions rule Finch had laid down earlier in the night. Finch could only hope that the man wasn't about to go through a last-minute change of heart over the moral dilemma of letting a potentially dangerous fugitive go.

"Doctor?" he asked, his calm tone belying the underlying worry.

Madani hesitated a beat, then, taking a breath, he finally said, "you can take your money back. I might not be a proper doctor here, but as you said, I was one back in Iraq and still am. It was my duty to try and save his life. I can't accept your payment."

For a second, Finch remained speechless. While he had feared that the medic was having second thoughts, this wasn't what he was expecting.

"Well," he replied, after gathering his thoughts, "consider this a _gift_ that will enable you to afford a medical license."

"I don't need such a sum to do that," Madani promptly objected. "There's way more money than necessary in that bag."

Finch offered a tight-lipped smile. "Well, do something nice with the rest. Open a clinic, buy some advanced equipment, bring your family in the States if you want. Either way, keep it. It's yours." He met Farouk's gaze and, reading in the man's eyes his internal struggle, he understood what the problem might be. He bit his bottom lip and carefully chose his words. "Listen, if you're worried about the _source_ of the cash, I can assure you it's not, ah, _dirty_ money."

The medic slowly nodded, searching Harold's face for a sign of untruthfulness. "Very well," he said at last, evidently finding none. "Then, thank you." He threw a last glance at John, who was waiting in the car with his eyes closed, and added, "should his condition worsen, you know where to find me."

"I do, indeed," Harold agreed and after nodding a farewell to the doctor he got in the car and sped away.

Getting John out of the car and inside the safe house wasn't an easy mission, but, in hindsight, it wasn't even as remotely challenging as Finch had anticipated. Judging by the way John held himself – with measured, precise movements which minimized any unnecessary fumbling and pull on the wounds - it was evident that the ex-op wasn't new to the task of moving around when badly injured. It didn't really come as a surprise, given the man's past, but the thought still made Finch quite uneasy.

The safe place Finch had picked wasn't particularly luxurious or spacious, especially if compared to other apartments they sometimes had to employ, but it was equipped with, among other things, a fully-fledged hospital bed, towards which Harold was currently steering the younger man.

He helped him sit down on the bed then went to retrieve some necessary supplies – some clean, comfortable clothes, some water and the vial with the painkiller. He threw a considering look towards the ex-op. He was clearly in pain – pale, sweaty, listing to his uninjured side, hands clenched hard.

Finch made a quick job of helping him change into the clean garments, steadying him gently with a hand as Reese tilted forward in a spell of dizziness and John was eventually settled into the comfortable bed.

Harold deftly prepared the injection – sadly, a routine he was very well acquainted with, due to the painful injuries to the back he had sustained – and turned his attention back to John. "I'm going to inject you a pain killer," he quietly advised, loath to dose him with anything without his express consent. "It's a slightly higher dose than before, so it should help you rest more comfortably."

John simply nodded, apparently too tired and hurting to even try to talk. He didn't even spare a look at the vial Finch had brought, implicitly trusting the older man with it.

"There's a bottle of sugared water on the nightstand," Harold added as he quickly administered the medicine. "You should try and drink some if you feel up to it."

"Mm-hmm," Reese quietly agreed but made no move to actually do so. Eyes already closed, he was clearly on the verge of sleep. Finch hated to disturb him, but the doctor's orders had been clear so he reached out for the water and carefully helped him drink some, trying to ignore the feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over him at seeing the younger man so out of it.

He sighed, putting the bottle back on the nightstand. There was nothing else he could do for John to ease his discomfort, at least for now – only let him sleep and hope for the best.

Finch himself was beginning to feel the results of that long, stressful, scary night, tiredness inexorably turning into a bone-deep exhaustion. He eyed longingly the comfortable-looking sofa in the corner of the room, but after a brief hesitation his paranoia overrode his need for sleep. Maybe there wasn't really anything else he could do for Reese on the more practical side, but he could however ensure that they were as safe as possible given the circumstances. He powered on his laptop and swiftly ran through various feeds – the NYPD precinct, the Hospital roof, the outside of the morgue and the entry of the building they were currently occupying. All was quiet. He even went as far as activating Detective Carter's microphone and GPS, and found out she had gone home, and, judging by the silent audio feed he was receiving, she was in all likelihood sleeping. Either they had given up the search for tonight or she had been kept out of the loop – probably the latter, he mused. Anyway, for now it seemed that they had got away. He made a mental note to find a way to acquire access to Snow's mobile GPS, maybe through Detective Carter's phone and, after turning off the computer, he went to check on Reese. The ex-op was apparently sleeping, and comfortably enough, at least judging by the deep, slow breathing. He was still very pale and a little sweaty, some loose strands of hair clinging to the forehead, but the lines of pain on his face had eased up a bit.

Satisfied, Finch settled on the couch.

For now, everything was under control.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to relax slightly, and soon enough the long-needed sleep finally claimed him.

 **To be continued...**


	2. Fever (Part 1 - Reese)

**Author's note:** here's chapter 2. I forgot to mention that the story is already complete and it has already been beta'ed. Updates will be fairly regular, one every two/three days (as long as real life doesn't get in the way).

Very special thanks to **DancingInTheDark85** who not only proofed this chapter for me, but also made it way better than it originally was by giving me some very insightful suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine and only mine!

Hope y'all enjoy this. If you feel inclined to, leave me some feedback: I'd love to hear what you think!

* * *

 **Chapter 2**  
Jonh's POV

When John slowly came back to awareness, he was hot and cold at once, sweating and shivering and terribly thirsty. But it had been the pain that had woken him up from his slumber, a deep agony in his side stabbing him at every breath and throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Definitely a gunshot wound – unfortunately, he had taken enough bullets to know perfectly what it felt like.

With that realization, he was seized with fear. What had happened? His brain was addled and unfocused, his thoughts so jumbled and confused that he had no idea about how he had got into such a predicament. Panic was beginning to settle in and he had to force his breathing to calm down. He needed to get up, and quickly, but his limbs were so heavy and his eyelids felt glued shut. Why couldn't he move? Opening his eyes would be a start, but even that felt like an insurmountable challenge right now. That was enough to ruin the control he'd just started to gain over his breathing, his heart hammering in his chest.

 _Come on,_ he told himself sternly with that internal voice that sounded like his old drill sergeant. _You've done this before, you can do it again. Inhale, exhale, and think!_

He clenched his jaw, fighting to control the pain and trying hard to recall what had transpired - and then he suddenly remembered.

Kara.

Kara had shot him. They were in China – or, perhaps, only he was. Kara had died in the explosion of the plant, hadn't she? He remembered running in the night, his gait made uneven and awkward by the bleeding wound, and then a loud, powerful explosion in his earbud and-no. Not his earbud, but behind him, making the ground shake and painting the sky a fiery red. He attempted to bring some semblance of order to his shattered recollections as a sequence of memories flashed in front of his eyes. Snow ordering him to retire her. Him, pulling a gun on Kara. Hesitating. And then, the irony of finding out that Stanton had been given the exact same order.

He had had second thoughts on the matter. She hadn't.

So much for chivalry and loyalty – he had been repaid with a bullet in his gut. And now the wound in his side was throbbing mercilessly and he needed to find a way to fly back in the States behind the CIA's back.

Faces were coming up on him – not the Chinese contact he had paid to hide him, but people whose faces he could not clearly see, surrounding him, threatening, suffocating. He searched for the right words – he could speak some Mandarin, knew the basics, the necessary words - but right now he was having trouble concentrating. He tried to fend them off, but they were too many and his gun was nowhere to be found.

Another unexpected memory flashed through his mind, literally out of nowhere. A middle-age Arabic man, holding some crude-looking tools in a sterile, steel-covered room, lights harsh and cold in the background – a doctor, Reese surmised. But it didn't make sense. What was a Middle-Eastern guy doing in Ordos? Maybe it had all been a trap – maybe Snow was behind it. Perhaps Snow had found out Kara had failed to kill him and he was now on his trail to finish the job. And John instantly knew he was going to be an easy prey for Snow, hurt and unarmed and outnumbered as he was. _Alone_.

The thought of Snow brought a deep feeling of distress and suddenly another flashback hit him. His handler, a parking lot, a _sniper_. But it couldn't be right. _Kara_ had shot him, and not in a parking structure, but in that compound in Ordos among dozens of dead Chinese IT developers. There had been no sniper – it had been Kara the one who pulled the trigger, he was sure. But then, where did those memories come from?

Why was he so confused?

He had to get up and move and run away and so he tried, bracing himself against the inevitable agony in his side– but the tiniest shift was enough to bring a sharp, unexpected pain in his leg, too.

Another thing that made no sense whatsoever. He vividly remembered his former partner aiming at his chest, he recalled the shot and the subsequent, piercing pain in his left side. But she hadn't shot him in the leg, of that he was quite sure. He remembered running away from the compound before it exploded, bombed by the CIA – flight after flight of stairs with the woman on his trail and…no.

Not stairs. There had been no stairs in Ordos. And Kara hadn't followed him when he had escaped. Then, that memory couldn't have anything to do with Ordos, either, right? But then, _where_ did it come from? The list of things that didn't add up kept growing and growing.

Why the hell couldn't he get his head straight? Maybe he was hurt worse than he had initially thought. Or perhaps he had been drugged. His breath quickened again at the idea, his heart hammering in his chest with anxiety as he considered the possibility. It would explain the confusion in his head and the crushing apprehension that gripped at his chest and stole his breath.

Someone was talking somewhere near. He knew that voice, he felt it without doubts, but he couldn't quite place it nor could he get what they were saying. He tried to tell them to stay away, but he wasn't sure it had come out the way he had meant. Someone grabbed his hand and he jerked it away on reflex.

The voice in the background was insistent – it didn't sound particularly threatening but John knew it did not mean it didn't pose a danger.

He pried his eyes open – he was in a room and there was just one man next to where he was laying. He looked somewhat familiar and, despite all logic, his brain was telling him he could be trusted. The faceless figures were gone and John wondered if they had ever even been there or if they had been just a figment of his imagination. Probably the latter.

His vision swam as he frantically looked around the room, trying to appraise the situation and looking for escape routes, or weapons at least, since running might prove a little too challenging at the moment. He didn't know the place, still had no idea of what was going on and he couldn't see anything he could use to defend himself. This was bad.

The man, still talking to him, took a step forward towards him and suddenly John noticed the syringe in his hands. He reacted on pure instinct raising his right arm quickly to shield himself and hitting hard the other man's wrist, effectively disarming him.

The syringe – drugs? – went flying with the impact, and the man jumped back. He had a weird expression on his face, a curious mix of hurt, fear and helplessness - not the reaction John would have expected from someone who was attempting to drug him senseless – and he was still talking in that imploring, desperate tone.

 _It's Finch_ , his brain provided. _He's_ _not_ _trying to drug you._

He could trust Finch, John knew this. He focused on the man's voice, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Words sank in. Something about a fever and a medicine - a medicine, not drugs! - and finally, blessedly, it all made sense.

This was why he was so confused, Reese realized. He was hurt and he was running a fever.

He still didn't remember what had happened – he guessed he could have asked Harold, but he was just so tired he couldn't find the energy to do so. Maybe later.

He saw Finch preparing another shot and tacitly asking for his permission. John hesitated a bit but finally nodded and when the older man reached for his arm he forced himself not to react, not to flinch, battling against his inner, natural instinct to fight.

 _Trust_ _Finch_.

He thought he should be talking to Harold – to thank him, to make sure they were safe, or, at the very least, to warn him against the threat that Kara might still pose – but the words just refused to be found. With that one coherent thought, in his head, trust Finch, all the adrenaline seeped from his body and darkness engulfed him.

 **To be continued...**


	3. Fever (Part 2 - Finch)

**Author's Note: Hi! Here's Chapter 3. It's a companion piece to the previous chapter, this time in Finch's POV.**

 **Again, a huge thank you to _DancingInTheDark85_ , irreplaceable beta-reader, encouraging supporter and good friend.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Fever**

Finch's POV

When Finch woke up, bright sunlight was filtering through the shutters, but a quick glance to the clock told him he hadn't slept long. A faint sound coming from the bed attracted his attention and what he saw alarmed him. John was drenched in sweat, arms thrashing around in distress, his head violently turning from side to side in his sleep, pupils moving relentlessly under closed lids.

Harold immediately got up, his mind reeling. The doctor had warned him that Reese's temperature might raise and had given him thorough instructions on how to proceed should that be the case, but he had really hoped to avoid that particular complication.

No such luck.

"John," he quietly called as he got close to bed, trying to wake up the other man, afraid that in his thrashing around he was going to hurt himself, but to no avail. He reached for John's hand to gauge his temperature, but Reese immediately flailed at the touch, and Harold, too, jerked his hand away. Contact with a feverish John was apparently unadvisable, Finch decided, at least if he didn't want to risk a limb.

The touch, albeit brief, had been enough to prove what he feared. Reese was definitely running a temperature, and possibly quite high judging by the warmth radiating from his skin.

"Too early for the next dose of antibiotics," Finch whispered to himself, recalling the earlier instructions. "A fever reducer, then." He began rummaging through the nightstand drawer, packed with medical supplies, until he finally located the items he was looking for – the thermometer and the antipyretic. Now he just needed John to wake up.

"Mr. Reese," he tried again, but still without success. The younger man appeared to be caught in the throes of a nightmare and was completely oblivious to Harold's presence. Sweat glistened on his pale face and there were dark circles under the closed eyes. "Mr. Reese, please wake up," Harold insisted and this time, at least, he received an answer – an unintelligible, urgent mumble in what sounded like a foreign language. Arabic, maybe, or Chinese, Finch couldn't really tell. Not that it mattered much anyway, since Harold could speak neither. John's eyes, though, remained stubbornly closed, even if rapid movements could be seen under the eyelids.

At least Reese seemed to be closer to consciousness, Harold hopefully thought, if the fevered mumbling was anything to go by. The main problem was getting John to cooperate – a goal that seemed unattainable. Finch tried again to wake him up by calling his name and, finally, it miraculously did the trick. John jerked awake, wide, glassy eyes frantically looking around the room.

"Thank God," Harold sighed in relief. "You're running a fever, Mr. Reese," he said and John's eyes immediately shifted to Finch's face. "I'm going to check your temperature and give you some medication," he then explained, showing the items he had collected from the drawer.

This got him no reaction. Reese was still staring at him uncomprehendingly, his breathing quick and shallow, muscles tense and trembling, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Mr. Reese? Have you understood what I said?" Finch took a step ahead, getting closer to the bed, and was about to reach for the other man's arm when John, finally taking notice of the syringe, bristled with fear. With a strangled cry, he slammed his forearm hard against Harold's wrist - a violent and quite painful blow which sent the vial and the thermometer flying.

Finch recoiled quickly, frightened by the sudden, unexpected outburst and massaged his aching limb, at a loss how to proceed. A feeling of helplessness was beginning to creep over him and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so powerless. He knew he _had_ to do something, but he was beginning to seriously doubt to be up to the task. But, then again, what else could he do? Should he call the doctor? Would he be able to help? Or, more precisely, would Reese let him help? He hesitated at the foot of the bed, doubts and questions gnawing at him. He finally decided to give it another try – calling the doctor would be his last resort.

"John, I'm just trying to help you," he all but pleaded. Again, Reese growled something incomprehensible, his left arm now draped around his torso.

"I don't understand you," Finch said, his tone betraying the despair he was feeling. "You're not speaking English."

He knew that Reese, caught in some awful flashback or hallucination, probably couldn't hear what he was saying, but he wasn't about to give up. Not yet.

"You were shot last night and you're sick. Let me help you."

And, blessedly, something in his speech must have finally broken through, because Reese stopped his movements and focused his eyes on Finch.

"Finch?" The relief Harold felt at the hoarse, confused whisper was indescribable. The older man didn't know how exactly he had managed to pierce through the heavy fog clouding John's brain, but it didn't matter at the moment. He was just grateful for the brief moment of lucidity.

"Yes, John, it's me." He retrieved another vial from the drawer – the first one was shattered on the floor – and prepared another syringe. "You're sick," he repeated, opting this time to forgo the details and jumping directly to the most concise version. Then, he drew near the bed once again, this time having care of keeping his movements slow and steady. "May I?" he asked, pointing at the shot. "It's for the fever."

Reese warily eyed the syringe, slowly processing the information, and eventually signaled his assent with a nod. He tensed when Finch administered the injection, his forearm taut and trembling slightly, but otherwise he made no move to stop Harold.

There was a slow trickle of blood on Reese's forearm. Finch frowned at the sight, baffled. A quick inspection of the limb revealed a shallow cut just over the wrist, which had been probably caused, as Finch assumed, by the impact with the syringe needle when John had resisted Harold's first unsuccessful attempt to administer the injection.

"You're bleeding," he stated, quite unnecessarily as a matter of fact, but looking up at Reese's face he realized the younger man had closed his eyes again. Whether he was sleeping, or he had just passed out succumbing to fever and pain, Finch couldn't tell. He wasn't even sure that there was actually much difference at this point.

The cut wasn't bleeding much – it was really nothing more than a scratch. After a brief consideration, Finch decided that it could forgo disinfection, afraid that the discomfort it would cause might wake Reese up and provoke another hostile reaction. He applied a loose bandage and left it at that.

There was nothing more he could do, for now, but wait and hope for the temperature to go down quickly. The doctor had advised Finch to call him should the fever get too high – but how high was _too high_ , exactly? Not that knowing a precise number would be of much help right now, Harold amended as he retrieved the thermometer from the floor, but Finch had always found some measure of reassurance in having precise numbers and measurements.

The small instrument hadn't survived the tumble, though, and was completely unserviceable, so Harold quickly dismissed the idea. Besides, getting John to cooperate long enough for his temperature to be actually taken, would have been quite another challenging task.

If the incident with the injection was anything to go by, Harold was beginning to fear that he might have to rethink his previous plans. Taking care of a hurt but cognizant Reese was one thing – difficult and awkward, maybe, but doable. A hurt and delirious Reese, on the other hand, was another matter entirely and something Finch wasn't sure he could cope with on his own.

He wearily sat down on a chair beside the small desk, considering the problem. Laying low now was essential –hiring a nurse or getting Madani to do some house calls, although convenient in the more practical sense, posed a huge risk. The involvement of the Iraqi coroner had already been a hazard, even if a necessary one which had been instrumental in saving John's life. Any further contact in such circumstances was like tempting fate.  
Yet, Reese's health was the top priority. He wearily sighed, caught in his dilemma, as the ex-op muttered again something unintelligible.

Finch rubbed a hand on his forehead, frustrated at his own helplessness. Behind a computer, he usually was in control even if faced with very complex problems – monitoring every variable, checking every angle, devising contingency plans and multitasking his way through every crisis. But _this_ – this wasn't a piece of code he could manipulate to make it better, or a faraway database he could hack into. This was real and close and dangerous and just downright terrifying, and he couldn't control any of it.

But fretting over the situation wasn't going to help, he chided himself. He shot a considering glance at John. The younger man still looked rather pale and sweaty and lines of pain and distress creased his face but, aside from the occasional jerk of the head and the feverish, anguished muttering under his breath he did seem marginally calmer than before.

For now, Finch decided, the best option was to wait and try to make Reese as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. If in a couple of hours there was no improvement, he would call Madani. He nodded to himself, hoping he was making the right decision and, after retrieving a couple of gel packs from the freezer to help cool John down, he settled down for the wait.

 **To be continued...  
If you're inclined to, let me know what you think! I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	4. Reflections and Revelations

**_Author's note_ : Hi all! First of all, sorry for the delay in posting the new chapter. Real life has been quite demanding in the last few days.**  
 **Here's part 4, I hope you'll enjoy it.**

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to _DancingInTheDark85,_ not only for her beta reading skills, but also and especially for her friendship and support, which both mean a lot to me.**  
 **Furthermore, thank you to all the readers and reviewers who are following this story. This is my longest fic so far, and your support and encouragement are very appreciated.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Reflections and Revelations**

John's POV

John jerked awake with a gasp. He had been dreaming – some dark, distressing nightmare he couldn't even recall but from which he was more than happy to escape.

He opened his eyes and looked around the room, trying to appraise his current whereabouts. There was a dull, persistent ache in his side, but he had a vague recollection of the pain having been worse some time prior, so he figured he had to be under medication. He caught a glimpse of a movement from the far corner, and there he saw Finch, laying on a big, comfortable-looking sofa. The older man appeared to be sleeping and John took a moment to study him. He was far from his usual impeccable self. Glasses askew, hair disheveled, the tie knot loose and a frown was deeply etched on his face. He also looked rather pale, and John had the distinct impression he had not meant to fall asleep but rather he had succumbed to exhaustion after a long, stressful night.

He blinked, filing the thought away for further reflection, and checked the rest of the room. It was not particularly big, but neat and cozy. And definitely well-equipped with medical stuff, John noticed and his eyebrows raised in surprise as he took in all the details – from the bed he was lying in to the nightstand on his right, covered in medicines and what looked like spent gel ice packs, to the wheelchair and crutches parked against the wall. _Impressive_.

A glance to the nightstand on his left revealed a half-full bottle of water and Reese suddenly realized just how thirsty he was. He reached out, trying to grab it, but it was too far. Biting back a growl of frustration, he tried again, stretching farther, but that was a mistake. The pain in his side – until then, annoying but tolerable – flared up with vengeance, taking his breath away.

He must have gasped, because when he reopened his eyes – when had he even closed them anyway? – Finch was hastily getting up from the sofa, an alarmed look on his face.

"John? You awake?" Harold asked, almost tentatively, stiffly scrambling to his feet.

John just nodded in response, still not trusting his voice to come out right. He kept his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard as he fought to control the pain in his side.

"Are you…what do you remember?" Finch had stopped at the foot of the bed and was now watching him intently, hovering close by but out of reach.

The hesitancy in his tone and behavior was not lost on Reese. What had happened? _What had he done?_

He frowned, trying to remember and a multitude of flashbacks and images assaulted his brain. This time, though, it was marginally easier to distinguish from past and recent events. He closed his eyes, struggling hard to get his bearings in the maze of stilted recollections.

"Snow," Reese slowly said at last, reopening his eyes, "on the roof of the Hospital. With a…sniper?" _Bastard_.

"Yes," was Finch's short answer, but he didn't elaborate.

Snow. Not Kara. Reese gingerly touched his bandaged side, where Snow's marksman had hit him. Kara's bullet scar was on the same side, but a little higher and more centered.

Same side, same orders, same Agency, but a different shooter.

There had been no bomb though – not on the rooftop, at least. Earlier, yes, John recollected as the memories slowly but surely trickled back into place – Finch had been there and Reese had just heard it through the earpiece. But it hadn't been the CIA bombing a site to get rid of its operatives. It had been number-related.

John recalled running away, two bullets in his body, descending countless steps of the Hospital service stairs until he had reached the bottom. And then Finch had arrived, and then… Carter. Following him, finding him. He blinked, trying to make sense of _that_ memory.

"Carter. She let us go," he quietly said, raising his eyes to meet Harold's. The older man's face was blank, guarded.

"That she did," Finch confirmed. "And then? What else do you remember?" he prompted.

"A _coroner_?" The Arabic guy – no, not Arabic, John mentally corrected himself, Iraqi. Bald, meek-looking, brandishing sterile tools and quietly giving Finch instructions…The next part, though, was fuzzy, confused.

"Doctor Madani. He stitched you." Finch was now beside him, offering him the bottle of water, helping him drink. Water felt like heaven, even if it tasted strangely sugary, and John nodded his thanks.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear away the cobwebs clouding his mind and noticed a bandage on his arm. He studied it, perplexed, then looked at Finch.

Harold's gaze shifted for a moment to the bandaged limb, and something akin to discomfort crossed his features. "You were having, ah, _issues_ with the proper treatment to your fever." Finch's explanation, when it finally came, was rather obscure, and the older man wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Issues?" What the hell had he done?

"From what I gathered you were, mmh, _concerned_ that I would try to drug you," Harold added, eventually adding some detail.

Reese swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and he looked away as the pieces of the puzzle fell back into place. He didn't remember any of it, but he had a pretty good idea of what might have transpired nonetheless, and it was not pretty.

"Nothing happened, Mr. Reese," Finch tried to reassure him, correctly reading his distress, but John thought otherwise. "Just the untimely death of a thermometer."

No wonder Finch had seemed to be on edge before, John bitterly thought. The point was, what had he done or said, exactly? Had he been aggressive? Had he tried to hurt Finch? What had Finch _seen_? The simple fact that the older man was still there and had not been scared off was a small miracle in itself, let alone the fact that he had evidently even managed to administer him any medicine without evident injuries.

"I'm sorry," Reese finally said, eyes still fixed on the pristine-white ceiling. And he was, truly, even though he knew that apologizing was hardly enough. But then, what else could he say?

"This is hardly your fault, John," Harold rebuffed, exasperated. "Your temperature was quite high, you were _delirious_."

"Yeah, I was…somewhere else," the ex-op admitted quietly. He ventured a look at Finch, who was fiddling with some items from the nightstand drawer.

"Mmmh, that was quite clear when you started speaking another language," the older man replied distractedly. "What was that, anyway?" he added, without looking up.

"Chinese," Reese said. "A bit rusty, though," he added as an afterthought.

Something crossed Finch's expression at this last bit of information – a minute tightening of his lips, an almost imperceptible frown - so quick it could have easily gone unnoticed hadn't John been observing him. He wondered about the reason for such a reaction.

Something else to mull over later.

He shifted in the bed, trying to sit up higher without putting too much strain on his wounds.

Finch raised his eyes in alarm. "Mr. Reese?"

"I need to get up, Finch," John replied, fighting against the sudden wave of pain and dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him with the change in position.

"No, you don't," Harold retorted, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're supposed to stay in bed and rest."

"Yes Finch, I know, but I need to go to the bathroom," Reese snapped, and immediately regretted his cross tone. It wasn't Harold's fault if he was hurting and helpless and bedridden.

"Oh. Right. Of course," Finch backtracked, evidently unoffended by his outburst. "But maybe you could try sitting up for a while before attempting to get up?"

It was a good advice as a matter of fact, Reese conceded. He had managed to raise himself a little, and even that slight elevation had been enough to make him feel nauseous and lightheaded and he had to close his eyes to stop the room from spinning.

He might have gone a little pale, too, because when he re-opened them Finch was staring at him, and again, he had that alarmed expression clearly written all over his face.

"I'm fine Harold," John reassured him. "A little dizzy. Just gimme a minute."

"Hmmm." Finch seem unconvinced and kept a steady hand on his arm, but did no actual move to stop him when, after a couple of minutes, John deemed it safe to sit up further and swing his legs outside the bed.

The whole ordeal of getting onto the wheelchair Finch had provided wasn't too much of a challenge and it required just a minimal amount of fumbling around – clearly, they both had some experience with it – and the trip to the bathroom was quick and uneventful, but by the time Reese was safely settled back in bed he was shaking and drenched in sweat and his side hurt so much he was beginning to feel sick. Harold, who had gone back to sit behind the desk, was furtively throwing at him worried looks, pretending not to, while typing at his computer.

Reese caught a glimpse of the monitor. The video feed playing was showing a familiar place – it was the 8th precinct.

"News, Finch?" he asked, both to distract himself from the pain and Harold from the obvious concern for his well-being.

Harold's gaze followed John's on the monitor, then went back to the younger man's face. He blinked, studying him, probably wondering about how much to disclose. Finally, carefully choosing his words he replied, "there's nothing to worry about."

Reese frowned at the less-than-informative answer, a hand surreptitiously pressed against his throbbing side, and focused back on the monitor. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary going on at the precinct –the usual hustle and bustle of cops on a random afternoon and thankfully no large-scale wanted-dead-or-alive manhunts or CIA-police task forces. Both Detectives were currently out of view. "Carter?" he finally asked, immediately realizing it was the second time he mentioned her since he had woken up. If Harold noticed, though, he hid it well.

"What about her?" Finch replied, cautious, his look turning back to the monitor. He went back to typing and lines of code began piling up in a small secondary window.

"She let us escape – more than that, she helped us."

Harold's hands stilled for a second on the keyboard, his mouth tightening minutely as he apparently debated whether or not to let be engaged in this particular conversation. "Only _after_ selling you out to the CIA, Mr. Reese," he finally pointed out.

The tapping resumed at full speed.

"Mmh. Yeah, well, I think she just wanted me arrested. Not dead," John mused. "She probably didn't expect Snow to have me gunned down by a sniper."

Finch stiffened at the ex-op's directness. "Please, Mr. Reese. Couldn't you just – never mind," he trailed off, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Your point, anyway?"

"The CIA. Do they know she helped us?"

Finch swiveled on his chair turning to look at John, coding and caution forgotten. "Really, Mr. Reese, I'm of the opinion that you should worry about yourself right now. However, to answer your question, no, they don't. The CIA cut all the feeds at the Hospital as soon as they got there, including the one that might have caught our escape…and her _role_ in it."

Reese let out a breath. "That's good," he softly commented. "They basically screwed themselves."

"That they did," Finch agreed. "I guess they never thought you'd manage to find an escape route. And, by the way, I took care of the other feeds in the vicinity. Actually," Finch added after a pensive pause, "I cut _all_ the webcam feeds in a few kilometers radius, so they can't even identify the car. They won't know which direction I came from or which destination we chose. Or the fact that she purposefully gave them wrong info about the direction we took."

"Thank you, Harold," Reese said with sincerity. Harold had been thorough, as always already seeing the big picture, and John couldn't but be grateful for that. After all, the involvement of both the Detectives had been solely his idea – well, maybe Carter's own involvement could be considered her own fault too, since she kept trying to take him in, but still... In any case, they were his responsibility, not Finch's. Carter was a good cop, a good person and John would never forgive himself should she get into trouble because of him.

"I'm quite fond of my car, Mr. Reese," Harold shrugged, turning his attention back to the computer. "It'd be a shame were I to be forced to discard it because of an APB issued on it."

"Yes, a real shame," Reese concurred, a small smile playing on his lips. The pain in his side had lessened, albeit just to a small extent, and was now more like a dull ache. Bothersome and exhausting, but tolerable. He stared at the ceiling, drawing controlled breaths.

"You should try and eat something, if you feel up to it," Finch said after a while.

Reese swallowed, considering the idea. The nausea had mostly subsided, but the prospect of food wasn't exactly appealing, even if advisable – the persistent shaking and dizziness weren't just consequences of pain and fever, but most certainly the result of the substantial blood loss. Just, he wasn't sure his stomach was ready for food yet.

"Maybe later," he finally replied, opting for a compromise.

"What about in half an hour?" Harold suggested, then went on, "by then, it'll be time for your medicines, too."

A good compromise, indeed. Pain relief was good and welcome, even though Reese hated the haze, the lack of focus it brought.

John kept his gaze locked on the ceiling without really seeing it, enjoying the ability to be able think clearly, even as his thoughts turned dark.

What had happened last night was deeply troublesome.

It had been a night of epiphanies, of sort; some good and some bad.

Each and every one of the people involved had revealed to be something more – or something less – than he had previously thought.

Take Snow, for example. Reese had already known well what a ruthless bastard he was, having worked together for years. Not to mention the fact that Snow had been the one to give both him and Kara that fatal order a few months before. Not his idea, obviously, but orders from above. Yet, he had had no qualms at all and relayed the death sentence without a blink, and, quite obviously without any remorse.

But a sniper? That had been a vile move. Snow had managed to stoop even lower than Reese would have ever believed possible. A sniper, shooting him down when he hadn't even pulled out his own gun.  
Low, yes, but also stupid, and shortsighted. His former handler had exploited Carter's integrity, convincing her to sell him out - no, persuading her that it was her civic _duty_ to act by the book. To bring a murderer to justice. But then, he had underestimated such integrity. He should have foreseen that Carter wouldn't have approved of his methods to get Reese. His mistake.

And not the only one. Snow had worked with Reese for years – he had been his handler, for God's sake. He knew him, knew his _modus operandi_ , his habit of always cataloguing the possible escape routes, his _resourcefulness_. Of course, Snow had planned for him to die on that roof, but he should have taken into account the chance, however slim it might be, that Reese would manage to escape. Yet, he hadn't. And he hadn't arranged for backup outside the Hospital, nor had he thought about securing the escape routes. Another rookie mistake.

And then Carter. She had been a hell of a revelation. John had already known about her honesty, her uprightness – exactly the qualities he liked in her, and the reasons why he had sought her, albeit reluctant, cooperation. So, seeing her getting out of the car with Snow, as much as it had been a disappointment deep-down, hadn't been too much of a surprise. He had been walking on thin ice, with her, and he had known from the beginning that this could happen.

But then, she had changed her mind. She had followed his blood trail, literally – again, she had been the only one to correctly guess his actions and path instead of Snow, and she had _known_ him for barely a few months – caught him and Finch and then let them escape, probably against every rule in her book.

She had let a rogue ex-CIA agent escape. A murderer. A criminal, from her point of view. She had risked her career for him, maybe she still was.

And this, as lucky and providential and _right_ in some sense, had been unexpected. It said a lot about her – she had broken the rules to preserve her inner integrity intact, if this even made any sense. She had turned out to be even _better_ than Reese had thought.

And, last but definitely not least, there was Finch. Despite their brief and somehow awkward and noticeably unbalanced acquaintance, John had inferred quite a bit about the other man's character. Harold was basically good, in a way that Reese for a long time hadn't thought possible for a man to be. He was genuinely caring and unselfish and without a hidden agenda, if maybe a little too soft for his own well-being.

So, when John had warned him to stay clear, he had inwardly suspected that Finch would just disregard his directive and would try to get him to safety anyway. But Harold had definitely gone above and beyond that.  
He had done the impossible for him, finding him an acquiescing doctor, organizing accommodations and supplies. And, more than that, he was there himself, providing care, food, medicines. _Company_.

Any good partner John had ever had would have guaranteed basic medical care and some help, but only a friend would go to such lengths as Finch had.

So, in a sense, John had been wrong about him. Last night Harold had revealed himself for what he truly was. Not just his employer. Not just a naïve millionaire trying to right the wrongs of the world out of boredom, but someone who really cared. And, in spite of every common sense, someone who cared for _him_. A friend.

For that, and for the timely rescue of the previous evening, John was immeasurably grateful, for he realized he had been saved in more than one sense.

And then, it finally hit him. He was _glad_ to be alive.

It turned out that the previous night had brought one more revelation to John, one about himself: he wanted, desperately, to live. Telling Finch to stay away, calling him for one last time had been difficult. Necessary, but difficult. Because John wanted to live, wanted to keep on doing what they were doing, at least for a little longer.

It was a revelation because just a few months ago he had been prepared to die. Ready, willing, _glad_ to die. Aiming to. The realization that _that_ had changed was eye-opening. Ready, he still was, and willing too, if need be. But determined to die, or glad? That, no more. He felt a dry smile tugging at his lips at the irony of the thought. How many people out there were _surprised_ to be happy to be alive? Probably not a common feeling.

But the fact remained that, as thankful as he was for the risky rescue plan that Finch had cooked up, the older man should have steered clear and safe, and with that thought the smile died on his lips. It had been too much of a risk, something they could not afford. Something that could not and would not happen again.

Reese would not allow Finch to be killed or captured by the CIA. The mere idea of what they would do to him to fish for information should they apprehend him was simply abhorrent. Unacceptable. Even worse was the knowledge that, had they taken Harold the previous night, it would have been all John's fault and nobody else's. The CIA, Snow, snipers – they came from John's past and belonged to his life, not Finch's.

And Reese just refused to be the cause for Finch's capture, it was something the older man must understand. They would need to talk about it, John decided, the sooner the better. Not today, maybe, since John hardly doubted he would be coherent enough to make his point, but soon. He would find an acceptable solution to the problem the CIA posed, because one thing he knew for sure: Finch would not become just some collateral damage in Reese's war with the CIA.

Reese would make sure of that.

 **To be continued...**

 **If you want to, let me know what you think! Constructive criticism is always appreciated.**


	5. On The Mend

**_Author's Note:_ Hi! Here's part 5. We're nearing the end of this story, just one more chapter to go.**

 **Very special thanks to _DancingInTheDark85_ for her invaluable help and encouragement, and to all who are reading, favoriting and/or reviewing my story. Your support is deeply appreciated.**

 _ **Author's Note 2**_  
 **AMA = American Medical Association.**

* * *

 **Chapter 5 : On The Mend**

John's POV

John's health kept improving during the following days, his strength gradually coming back and fever thankfully defeated, but the process wasn't always smooth. Reese was not new to the whole healing thing – in his line of work, both present and past, getting injured was sort of a common occurrence – but he would never get used to the forced inaction that recovering ensued.

After the first few days, spent mostly asleep thanks to the cocktail of prescription painkillers, antibiotics and fever reducer shots Finch punctually provided, John had resolutely stated it was time to reduce the use of heavy medication, and, despite Finch's plain-spoken doubts on the matter, so it had been. Thus, much to John's relief, he had gone back to being awake and responsive for the better part of the day, even if worn out and often in pain.

Problem was, prolonged periods of consciousness brought boredom.

John simply didn't do idle and laying in bed all day with nothing to do was the epitome of idle. Not that he complained – at least he tried not to. Harold was, after all, doing his best to make his recovery as smooth as possible, even spending hours with him just to keep him company, and John did his best to rein in his bad mood as a token of gratitude. Now that the ex-op's condition had dramatically improved, Harold did disappear for a while every day – the reasons left unspoken – but then promptly reappeared after no more than a few hours, often bringing food, supplies and books.

Despite the older man's firm refusal to delve into the topic, Reese had no doubts that his daily absences had everything to do with the numbers. Finch, though, wouldn't even admit that, let alone discuss the cases with John or request his input, and it was driving Reese crazy.

He knew that Harold was just trying to protect him and, as unusual as it was for John to have someone care so genuinely for his well-being, he appreciated it. But, combined with the forced isolation, it was starting to grate on his nerves. All that time on his hands left him with way too much room for brooding for his liking, and more often than not his thoughts turned to dark places that were better left unvisited.

He could have had contact with other people, actually: Finch had suggested more than once that Madani come and check on him if need be, but John had flat out refused, considering it an unnecessary risk. He was, after all, on the mend and was practiced enough in gunshot wounds recovery to know with certainty that he was fine, or as fine as he could be under the circumstances.

Just like he had refused to make an appointment with a physiotherapist, and not for lack of asking on Finch's part. He hardly doubted Snow could be monitoring all the medical personnel in New York, so it would have probably been safe enough, but Reese saw no point anyway in hiring a physio. He already knew what he needed to do for a complete recovery - the what, the how and the how much – as he knew his limits and how hard he could push himself, and that's what he was doing, despite Finch's perplexity sometimes bordering on alarm.

Not that John could actually do much at this point. The first bullet had cracked a rib – not overly serious _per se_ , but it called for caution, lest it break and cause even more damage - while the one in his thigh, albeit blessedly missing the femur, had done some serious harm to the muscle. He couldn't even straighten his leg completely without pain, let alone putting weight on it.

Not that he hadn't given it a try, even against his better judgment, during one of the first times Finch had left him by himself to run errands. John had waited for the older man to go out, then had attempted a step with the crutches. The excruciating pain he had felt as soon as he had put a minimal amount of weight on his right foot had almost been enough to send him crashing to the floor and he probably would have, hadn't he been so close to the bed, where he had unceremoniously collapsed. The unsuccessful attempt had left him in a bad mood for the rest of the day, on top of a vicious throbbing in the thigh that the pain meds hadn't been able to abate. And, judging by the inquisitive looks Finch had kept throwing at his way that evening, John could have sworn that the older man somehow knew, and disapproved, what he had tried to achieve.

At least he wasn't confined to bed anymore. He still needed to lie down often throughout the day, mostly because after a while sitting put too much strain on his injured ribs and side, but the wheelchair and the mobility it provided, albeit limited, was a great improvement.

Not that he had anywhere to go, though. The apartment Finch had chosen was sober but comfortable, and above all well-stocked for any medical emergency and safely secluded, thus making it the perfect place to lay low while recovering from an injury. But now its remoteness and dimensions were beginning to feel suffocating.

Finch had even tried bringing him DVDs since books and magazines didn't work anymore as a distraction, picking out a weird mix of black and white classics, action movies and westerns that had actually turned out to be more entertaining than John had originally thought.

Tonight, though, he wasn't in the mood for movies, books or any other distraction. He was feeling unusually twitchy.

Harold was sitting at the desk, working. He had spent the last hour disassembling a hard drive or whatever piece of hardware it was he was handling, and now, after putting it back together, had just powered up his laptop to try it, or so Reese assumed. He usually found all those sounds he associated with Finch – the quick, soft tapping on the keyboard, the quiet, metallic noises of him tinkering on hardware spare parts, the quiet turning of pages of a book – to be quite relaxing. Tonight, however, not even them could sooth him and distract him from his gloomy, troubled thoughts.

"Have you considered hiring someone who is not currently wanted by an entire CIA task force?" John suddenly asked, breaking the silence for the first time in more than an hour. Finch's fingers stilled on the keyboard, and he swiveled on the chair, turning to look at the younger man. The intensity of Reese's stare belied the casual tone in which the question was delivered.

Harold studied John for a minute, but the younger man refused to meet his gaze. He stared obstinately at a random point in the wall over Finch's head instead.

"Are you quitting on me, Mr. Reese?" the billionaire finally asked.

"No."

"Then I see no reason to hire someone else," Harold stated with finality, and resumed working at his code. But the tense set of his shoulders starkly contradicted the apparently unconcerned way in which the older man had shrugged off John's suggestion.

However, Reese wasn't about to let it go. "Maybe you should," he insisted, after a few beats.

"I should what?" Finch asked distractedly, eyes intently focused on the monitor and hands still nimbly flying on the keys. Whether he was really engrossed in his work or he was just trying to let the matter drop, Reese wasn't sure, but he didn't particularly care either. This was an issue they needed to confront, and now was as good a time as any.

John let the question hang and simply stared at the older man. The lack of a response and the continued staring evidently hit the mark because after no more than a couple of minutes Finch finally lifted his gaze from the coding.

" _What_?"

"You don't need the CIA on your trail, Harold," Reese slowly began. "And it's quite obvious that I'm on their radar, and that's not going to change soon. They sure as hell won't stop looking for me. Associating with me could be… _dangerous_."

Harold pensively nodded, as if considering his words, a finger tapping on the laptop lid. "The same could be said for you, Mr. Reese," he finally answered, and the ex-op frowned in confusion. This was not an answer he had expected. "They might have already been looking for you since the subway incident, but this job is definitely what has put the spotlight on you. So maybe you're the one who should consider pursuing another line of work," Finch concluded in what Reese could have sworn sounded like a smug tone.

"That's not the point, Finch," Reese protested. The older man was missing the obvious, he thought. "I was already in danger, nothing has changed. You, on the other hand -"

"I was already in a _hazardous position_ as well" Harold cut him off. He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand on his eyes. "The Machine, the numbers – all of this puts you and me both in a state of constant, grave risk," he went on. He paused again, cleaned the lenses with his silk handkerchief and then put them back on. "And we'll always be in danger, no matter what we do. You and me _both_ ," he repeated, particularly stressing the last word. "So, no, I'm not considering hiring someone else." He took a careful breath, as if considering something, then, meeting squarely John's gaze he added, "but, of course if you deem it safer for yourself to part ways, I would understand."

"Of course not," John scoffed. "I'm not going anywhere."

"That's what I thought," Finch nodded, satisfied, as if a point had just been proven. John blinked, frowning. This is not how he had envisioned this conversation to go, yet he could see Finch had a point. More or less. But Snow's problem still remained. And, as much as Harold might play down the added danger the CIA posed, Reese didn't.

He had had the chance of taking Mark Snow's life more than once during the previous weeks, and spared him. Now, though, things were going to change. From now on, if Snow only tried to get near Finch, John would not hesitate to kill him. It was the only way.

"Well, now, if you don't mind, I have a couple of urgent matters which need my undivided attention," Finch was saying, gesturing towards his laptop and the ex-op forced his thoughts back to the present. "We'll have to be particularly careful with the CIA from now on, and I'd say a nice Trojan horse into every electronic device Snow uses is a good start."

"Do your magic, Finch," John found himself chuckling at the thought and he realized that, now that both he and Finch had planned their strategies, for the first time in ages he actually felt almost relaxed. "And what's the second matter you need to take care of?"

"Well, I 'm thinking about arranging new accommodations for the next couple of weeks," Finch replied. "I have the rather distinct impression that you're beginning to feel cramped in here, aren't you?"

The older man looked up from the laptop to meet Reese's eyes, and, in turn, Reese put on his best " _Who, me?_ " expression. It didn't work, judging by the unimpressed look on Finch's face.

"Well, there's no need for that, Harold," John argued with a shrug. "In a couple of days I'll be ready to go back to my, huh _, previous accommodations_." Which consisted in a very bleak motel in a very seedy neighborhood – the kind of motel where all you got was a tiny room at the third floor and the lift was always out of service - but that was a detail he didn't feel the need to share.

Harold, this time, didn't even bother to dignify Reese's argument with a response, but merely threw a pointed look to the wheelchair John was currently occupying and the crutches in the far end of the room, and John guessed that the other man knew perfectly the places he used to stay in.

They lapsed again into a comfortable silence, only broken by the continuous, soft noise of tapping on the keyboard. Reese's side was beginning to throb in rhythm with his heartbeat, and he tried to fight the need to shift for a more comfortable position. From past experience, he knew how pointless it was – the relief would only be short-lived and the movement would painfully jostle his leg.

Then, after a few minutes, Finch hummed in satisfaction. "Trojan horse sent," he declared. "A memo will pop up on agent Snow's smartphone and as soon as he'll tap on it we will have complete and undisclosed access to everything he uses – GPS, e-mails, calls, everything."

The laptop beeped once and Finch's smile widened.

"I guess he received the memo," Reese said with a smile of his own, trying to distract himself from the growing discomfort. "Then what, Finch? You'll hack into the AMA and register our coroner friend as a licensed medic?" he asked, only half-joking. "Or a government site. Why don't you hack into the Pentagon directly?"

"Very funny, Mr. Reese. As a matter of fact, I have already hacked the Pentagon. Several times, actually. Their firewalls are rather lacking, which, if you ask me, is quite disappointing if you consider it's the Government we're talking about," Harold stated with a disapproving frown. "As for Madani, well, he'll apply for his medical license soon, I guess."

"You plan on keeping him as an asset?"

"Hmmm. It wasn't the original plan, but considering your, huh, _penchant_ for getting shot…well, the thought has crossed my mind in the last few days."

The last statement was thrown at him with a quirk of the eyebrows and Reese had the distinct impression the tone wasn't entirely teasing.

"My _penchant_ for getting shot?" he repeated. He paused for a moment as he maneuvered himself from the wheelchair to the bed, finally giving in to the pain and stiffness he felt. He focused on keeping his movements slow and steady not to jostle his sore side. Even without looking up, he could feel Finch's worried gaze on him, but the older man made no move to help him, and for that, John was grateful. Finally settled, he took a moment to control his breathing, then added, "just for the record, the _getting_ _shot_ bit - it's completely unintentional."

"And I dearly hope so, Mr. Reese!" Finch's answer was quite vehement. "In any case, keeping an eye on the doctor might be a wise idea. God knows I hope we won't require his services again, but, with you, I'm afraid it's wishful thinking." He threw John a considering look. "But maybe, in your case, it would probably be safer just to provide you with a body armor."

"Very subtle," Reese deadpanned with a small quirk of his lips. "And _knightly_. You'd give me a horse, too, Finch?" he quipped. When Harold didn't react to the joke, he looked up and realized the other man was now openly staring at him, a weird expression on his face. "Finch?"

"You _could_ wear a bulletproof vest, Mr. Reese," the billionaire slowly said. "You should, actually. Why didn't I think about this sooner?"

"Bullet-resistant," John automatically corrected, "not bullet proof. Vests offer marginal protection from shots, but don't actually stop them."

"Ok, bullet-resistant," Harold amended. "Still better than nothing. You should definitely wear one," he harped on.

"Not really, Finch," John disagreed with a shrug. "There's a reason why I don't. I'm not saying vests aren't useful… but they're cumbersome and not very discreet. You can't exactly hide a vest under everyday clothes, everybody would notice. Kinda hard to explain."

And considering how often John had to get close to the numbers _incognito,_ without raising suspicions, it just wouldn't do. His job was doing his best to protect innocents – were they numbers or their victims – not protect himself. And, if it came to choose between the two, the numbers simply won.

But Harold wouldn't be so easily deterred and the faint glimmer of hope picturing his face stubbornly refused to leave his features. "I'm sure there must be some slimmer, less noticeable models," he insisted.

"Yes, there are," Reese patiently amended, "but they offer a very meager protection. Trust me, they're not really worth it."

He hated to see the disappointment on Harold's face – and knowing that it was caused by concern for _him_ left him with a strange mix of feelings. It was unfamiliar and disconcerting and definitely an unforeseen development of their partnership, but above all it felt _pleasant_.

"I'll be careful, Finch," Reese reassuringly said. "We'll keep an eye on Snow – with all your monitoring hacks, we will know right away if he tries something," he added, waving a hand in the vague direction of the laptop.

 _And I will kill him as soon as I lay eyes on him,_ he mentally added. But this was yet another detail he thought was better left unsaid.

Harold stared unfocusedly at him for a few beats, his brows furrowed in an unhappy frown, then finally nodded his defeat, having apparently accepted John's argument.

"If you say so," he slowly said, still looking pensive.

They lapsed once again into silence, and Finch went back to his quick, unrelenting typing. Only, this time a faint scowl still marred his features and he looked like he was only half-absorbed in his current work, and John idly wondered what was on his mind. He realized he was too tired to investigate, though, and the rhythmic noise ok the keys was almost lulling him to sleep. He closed his eyes and didn't fight the drowsiness creeping on him, his breathing becoming increasingly slower and deeper. Whatever was going to happen – the CIA task force, the NYPD, _Snow_ – didn't really matter. He had a plan, now. He knew Mark's game and would use this knowledge to predict his moves. He would be ready to face any threat.

 **To be continued...**

 **Constructive criticism is always welcome - drop me a line and let me know what you think!**


	6. The Gift

**_Author's Note:_ Hi everybody! Here we are with the last part. I'm sorry for the delay - I had actually planned on posting it a couple of days ago, but life got in my way.**

 **Anyway, thank you for bearing with me till the end of this little tale. I hope you had fun reading it and that you'll enjoy this last chapter, too.**

 **If you're inclined, leave me a review with your thoughts - I'd love to hear your opinion!**

 **As always, many thanks to _DancingInTheDark85_ for her constant support, patience and encouragement. I wouldn't have made it this far without her.**

 **One last thing: I did some research in order to keep things as realistic as possible (without spoiling all the fun): at the end of the chapter you'll find a couple of references and some information in case you're interested.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6 - The Gift  
**

Finch's POV

It took another couple of weeks before Reese was actually able to stand and walk with the crutches.

He should have waited longer than that, at least according to the doctor, who had advised him to keep his weight off his injured leg for another two to three weeks. Reese, though, had been forced to get up in order to help the last number – the super of the condo in which he was currently staying, and he had decided right away that he was done sitting on a wheelchair and stubbornly declared himself healed enough.

This time, Finch's protests had fallen on deaf ears and the older man, who could recognize a lost cause when he saw one, had been forced to throw the towel pretty quickly.

It was a little too soon, in his opinion, and he was sure it would have been a definitely wiser choice for the former agent to take some more time to recuperate, but it had already been hard enough to keep him sidelined until now. And, in all honesty, to some extent Finch too felt relieved to go back to their old, pre-shootout routine.

The exchange of roles they had tried while working on Trask's number had been sometimes problematic and, despite the undeniable positive final results, the process had not been devoid of glitches. Harold was not accustomed to field work and he was sure he never would – quite frankly, the idea that someone could _like_ a job which might require poking your thumbs into someone else's eye-sockets still left Finch rather appalled - and he felt way much more comfortable behind a computer. John, on the other hand, although sufficiently thorough and precise in his online research, simply lacked the patience and the expertise Finch possessed in that department.

So, Finch had let the matter drop and more or less accepted Reese's self-declared clearance for work, and instead opted for a compromise regarding the younger man's accommodations. It hadn't been too hard to convince John to stay for another week into the apartment in the condo where Trask worked and that itself was a small fortune, considering John's questionable residence choices – a never-ending sequence of third-rate, seedy motels in which he never stayed for more than a few days at a time.

Harold shook his head at the thought as he rounded the corner and reached the elevators of the building. He readjusted the package he was carrying under his arm, then pushed the button to call the lift. He had never asked Reese the reasons for such choices – it wasn't his business, after all, and besides he wasn't sure about the ex-op's possible reaction at the invasion of his privacy – but he suspected that his reluctance to settle down was a habit born out of survival instinct.

In any case, Finch mused as he got into the elevator, he was glad that he had won this battle, even if it was going to last just for a few more days.

He paused in front of the apartment door, debating whether to knock or let himself in with the spare key he had, and finally opted for the latter.

Reese was sitting on the couch – crutches neatly propped on the wall and wheelchair nowhere to be seen – cleaning some sort of weapon. It wasn't his usual gun, and Finch fleetingly wondered where it had come from.

"Harold," John greeted him without looking up from the task at hand, which, to Finch's untrained eyes, apparently consisted in scrubbing a weird-looking brush over the gun's empty magazine.

"Mr. Reese, have you ever thought about getting a hobby which doesn't involve playing with weapons?"

"Mmmmh. Not really," came the amused reply. The ex-op slid the clean magazine back in and packed his cleaning tools away. "Sounds boring. Unappealing."

Finch snorted. "I'd say it sounds _safe_ , but I guess it's a matter of personal opinion. Anyway, I brought you something," he added, handing John the box in his hands, wrapped in nondescript beige paper.

Reese took it somewhat uncertainly, eyebrows raised in perplexity. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out," Harold suggested with a wry smile, pulling out the laptop from his bag and setting it on the wooden table nearby. He powered it up and accessed his usual surveillance feeds, feigning indifference but all the while surreptitiously sneaking some looks to the younger man to gauge his reaction.

John carefully pried the package open, neatly folding the discarded paper aside, to reveal a cardboard box, not dissimilar in weight and dimensions to the ones which usually contained bespoke shirts. He removed the lid, sparing another curious glance to the older man. Inside, indeed, there was a white garment.

It wasn't a shirt, though. It was a bulletproof vest.

A very lightweight and discreet one, in facts, so much that it could be worn undetected under a shirt – which was exactly the reason why Finch had chosen it. He watched as John pulled it out of the box and weighed it in his hands. It was thin and flexible, and, judging by the perplexed frown marring his features, it felt quite different to the touch from any other similar garment John had ever handled.

Reese glanced questioningly at Harold. "Finch?"

"This should do the trick, Mr. Reese," Harold casually offered. "Multi-strike, NIJ Level III," he went on.

Reese's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A Level III? So thin? What is it, 5 millimeters thick? 6?"

"5.2 if I remember correctly, but I'll leave it to you to find the specifics in the included guide," Harold answered, pointing at a tiny-printed handout lying in the bottom of the box. "And yes, it has been officially classified as a Type III in 2010."

"It feels different from common Dyneema fibers, or Kevlar," John pensively commented, applying a light pressure with the palm of his hand to the center of the vest.

"Because it is different, John. It's a new fiber, a synthetic polymer derived from PBO but with a 6.3 GPa of textile strength," Finch recited. He was hardly a connoisseur of weapons and such – that was definitely Reese's field of expertise – but he had done his research. Quite thoroughly, in facts.

Since the previous week conversation, despite Reese's assessment about the inadequacy of bullet-proof vests, the nagging thought had stubbornly taken up residence at the back of Finch's mind and wouldn't leave him alone. A few hours of extensive online research – so extensive, in facts, that Harold felt he had unwillingly memorized quite a vast amount of technical jargon – had presented him with the perfect solution. He had found out about a classified research project, originally financed by a Government Agency, regarding the development of new materials for combat gear – a project that had been abandoned a couple of years ago due to lack of further financing.

Acquiring the classified prototypes already produced hadn't been too hard – it was surprising what a generous and anonymous endowment could grant.

Reese raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the data. "Many people would kill for a vest like this," he commented, "no pun intended."

"Mmmh." Finch's only answer was a non-committal shrug.

"I've never seen anything like this. CIA, FBI, army, private military contractors…nobody has gear even remotely similar to this," Reese pensively added, running his hands on the garment and twisting it at the sides to test its flexibility. He was clearly intrigued at the idea of trying it on.

"Well, the reason for that may very well lie in the fact that a bullet-resistant vest like the one you're currently holding costs way more than any agency would be willing to spend," Harold nonchalantly stated, turning his attention back to his laptop. "Just a few prototypes were produced before the project was shelved for the future."

"How much is it?"

"It's a present, Mr. Reese," Finch deadpanned, without even looking up from the monitor. "Anyone ever told you it's rude to ask the price of a gift?"

"Come on, Finch, I'm curious," John cajoled, unfazed by Harold's retort, all the while giving an experimental tug to the sides of the vest. "Just give me an idea…"

"Curiosity killed the cat," Harold commented, unwavering. The fact that a vest like that cost like a couple of cars – luxury cars, actually – was hardly relevant. If it truly offered the protection it promised, it was worth the price. If need be, he could even decide to buy the whole company sooner or later and restart the research on advanced defensive gear, Finch mused. If there was anything that could be done to prevent John from getting hurt in the future, Finch was more than ready to do it.

He looked up and observed the ex-op as he repeatedly jabbed his index finger in what appeared to be random spots in the front of the vest. Harold figured John knew what he was doing, though, because after a couple more pokes he nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with whatever he was looking for and ceased the assault.

"What?" John looked up from the vest and he saw Finch staring at him.

"Try not to break it before ever having used it, maybe."

Reese's lips curved in a small smile. "Hardly. I'm just testing it."

"And I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to test it, Mr. Reese," Harold commented with a small shake of the head and, after a few final strokes of the keyboards he closed the laptop and got up. "Many more opportunities that it would be advisable, actually," he added.

"What can I say, Finch? Blame it on my boss," Reese dryly answered and Finch merely threw him a mildly exasperated look as he stuffed his laptop back in his shoulder bag.

"You going to the Library? We got a new number?" John asked, a spark of eagerness coloring his tone.

"Not yet," Harold distractedly answered, rummaging inside the bag. "There's something I need to do first."

"And that would be?"

"This," Finch finally exclaimed, pulling out a transparent evidence bag containing a mobile phone and offering it to John.

"I already have one, and I haven't broken it," Reese objected. "Not yet, anyway," he amended after a brief, considering pause.

"I know," Harold nodded, pushing the phone in Reese's hands. "But I was thinking about sending Snow out in a little field trip. And _this,_ " he explained, gesturing towards the device, "is going to be evidence."

A feral glint sparkled in John's eyes as understanding dawned. He carefully handled the phone, making sure to leave a few prints on it, battery included. "I heard that Iowa is awfully cold this time of the year. And windy, too."

"Then, Iowa it is," the older man replied, stuffing the phone back in the plastic bag. "They might even catch you on a couple of security cameras in Des Moines."

"Really, Finch?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised about how easy it is to hack into surveillance feeds software," Harold stated with a head shake. "I can plant your image into the recorded video in no time, and I highly doubt Agent Snow would be able to detect my alteration of the feeds."

"Sounds like a good plan, Harold."

"Let's hope so," Harold replied. He zipped the bag shut, the red herring phone safely hidden inside, then draped the bag strap over his shoulder. "Try to, ah, stay out of trouble while I'm gone." He threw John, and the gun lying on the nearby table, a pointed look and headed towards the door. "Don't shoot anyone."

John snorted a laugh and, after a brief hesitation he called out, "Finch?"

The older man stopped on the threshold and turned to look at John, who had gone back to fiddle around with the vest.

"Yes?"

"Thank you," John said. He didn't elaborate further, but there was no need. Harold understood.

"Don't even mention it."

* * *

 **The End**

 ** _Author's note 2_ : you probably already guessed that, just like Finch, weapons, bulletproof vests and such are really not my thing. And, just like good ol' Harold would, I've done some research (I do hope nobody is gonna check my browser search history!) and read a couple of things about them for the sole purpose of writing this fic.**

 **By the way, while Dyneema, PBO and Kevlar do exist, I really have no idea whether anybody has ever created a new, more resistant and thinner fiber to build vests (but, and I'm guessing here, it's probably unlikely).**

 **One last thing – if you're wondering, NIJ stands for National Institute of Justice. It's an agency of the U.S. Department of Justice and it has developed, among many other things, a scale to classify ballistic shields according to the level of protection they provide.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


End file.
